


It's Going to Be You

by bethepuck



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Cheating, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Burn, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Partial AU in which Dustin Tokarski is traded directly to the Anaheim Ducks and meets the acquaintance of the residential goaltender, John Gibson who welcomes him less than graciously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Anaheim Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So I really thought I should give this pairing a shot since they may or may not end up as goalie partners one day. Heads up: this fic is going to have a lot of mentioned cheating, considering the fact that they're all pretty much in present relationships, but it's not going to be at the forefront. Also, I changed a few things so that the story runs smoothly, like Dustin going directly to the Ducks and not the farm team and Andersen being injured so the two are a goalie tandom right off the bat. This first chapter is pretty much just a quick update to set the scene and get things started. Enjoy!

John wasn't really quite sure what to think. There was some logic in it all, with Andersen injured and the next goalie in line to be pulled up from the AHL, but he didn't understand the point of using a trade to get a temporary backup. John just stared at his phone when he found out, thumb circling aimlessly around the lock button as the screen dimmed, eyes stuck on Getzlaf's group chat text. John had never even heard of him. He skims over the name again and again with a bland gaze. He didn't know the Habs had another goalie aside from Price and Condon. Absentmindedly, he nudges at a half-downed Deer Park on the coffee table with his loosely sock-clad toe, slowly pushing it near the edge, not really expecting it to fall when it does. He clicks the lock button on his phone, slouching further down in the lounge chair. John bought the house last year after signing his three year deal with Anaheim, immediately searching for a stupidly massive mansion-like thing, the type you'd see in a movie, but still regal and classy, sort of British-looking and sophisticated, finding it on a huge plot of land almost on the edge of the city, glaring out across at the flashing lights in the distance. Some nights he swears he can see the beach from his balcony. His girlfriend, Alexa says it's impossible since the ocean's practically thirty miles away. John stares blankly at the wall. There are times when he wonders if he should've just bought an apartment in the city instead, for he has more empty rooms than he'd like to admit and doesn't need six bathrooms for the two of them.  
There's nothing to worry about, John reminds himself. Nothing at all. No way this guy could ever keep up with him. The clock on the wall ticks ominously. He probably never played in Montreal anyway, so why would he ever get the chance to play here? Why did they trade for him anyway? John can handle all these games by himself. Silence dries out the room. John glances at his phone. He's not going to do it. He's not. He looks back up at the clock. Practice isn't for another three hours. Anxious fingers brush the home button experimentally. It's not weird or anything. They're going to be teammates soon, so why shouldn't he do a little reading? Sick of fighting his better judgement, John unlocks his phone and opens up Google, typing in the name Dustin Tokarski.

***

Dustin presses his forehead against the cool glass of the plane window, eyes wandering across the vast expanse of the Californian landscape. Delicate fruit tress dot the scene like a simple, pastel-colored canvas. Letting out a long breath, the window fogs up and turns opaque, the colors below shrouded by the mist. California is far, Dustin thinks. Far from Montreal. Far from everything that's familiar and ordinary. His wife couldn't come just yet, had to finish up the last few months of her job before she could uproot her life and move west. It must be hard, he knows, but that was part of the whole deal when they got married. And then there're his teammates and his goalie partners—Mike and Carey—mainly Carey.  
Carey never got to say goodbye to Dustin before he left, the trade was so sudden. They had made plans to hang out that night when it happened, but Carey texted to cancel. "Sorry Angela wants to go out." And Dustin understands. He's just disappointed. Dustin's eyes begin to shut a bit and the hum of the plane's engines drift though congested ears.  
Dustin always thought Carey was the coolest. It wasn't an infatuation exactly, it was just a very deep appreciation for everything that is Carey Price: his talent, his looks, his humor. He couldn't believe they'd be playing side by side, or practically so, Dustin on the AHL affiliate team and Carey starting for the Habs, when he was traded to Montreal from the Lightening.  
There wasn't really a beginning, so to speak, of what they did. Dustin was pulled up to the NHL and Dustin couldn't breathe he was so excited and one day it just started happening. After a big win, they'd go out for a couple of drinks and then head back to the hotel for an easy fuck. Carey was good, real good, and he knew what to do with his hands and mouth and Dustin was more than happy to take whatever Carey would give him. And it wasn't weird, not like you'd think at least. Carey didn't tell Angela and Dustin didn't tell Linea and it was like everything they did never happened the moment they left the room. That's how Carey made it feel.  
The steam dissipates on the window and Dustin can see a few smudges of white cloud beneath the aircraft.  
It started out so normal. They'd go out for pizza and beers on the nights they didn't have games and end up between the sheets and that's all it was. But then the days passed and Dustin started to notice Carey's sleepy grin and his stupid puns and the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he scrunched his nose up and it wasn't normal anymore, it was something so much deeper that heated up his cheeks when Carey stared at him and made him feel all jumpy like there were a thousand little butterflies trying to get out of the pit of his belly whenever Carey said his name. It was no longer a quick fuck, it was something closer to love and it scared Dustin so bad because for Carey, it was just an easy fuck on the side because Carey had Angela and that was enough for him. And so when Dustin got traded and Carey didn't say goodbye, it stung a little more on his end than it should have and each mile that passes between the two as the plane dips down toward the California airport, Dustin can't help but feel the heavy weightlessness of his unsaid words.

***

Dustin isn't exactly angry... Maybe a bit disappointed... And tired... And vaguely lonely... But angry? No. It's a small apartment, smaller than he wanted, smaller than a permanent dwelling place should be for someone who makes as much money as he does, but he's not annoyed about it. Linea picked it out. She said it would be perfect for just the two of them and the location was great for going out, "It's in the middle of everything!"  
Dustin stares at the little area. There's one bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen in the middle of a less than satisfactory open space. He tries to remain positive. New city, new start, new life. It's got a little porch balcony that looks out across the city and he knows just how breathtaking the view will be at night, and the floors are wooden and barely worn with cream colored walls in the kitchen and a forlorn pale blue in the bedroom. Yet, for some reason that Dustin can't decipher, the one bathroom is pastel pink and he doesn't really know what to do with it, spending a solid three minutes just staring at the paint as though it might miraculously change color. The moving van has yet to arrive and probably won't for several more days. Without the furniture, Dustin's small, empty apartment is an ugly thing to bear witness to and for a good while, he can't even find the light switch due to it's inconvenient placement practically at his hip in the middle of the wall, the only light flooding in through the floor to ceiling windows coming from the sun covered in thick clouds, making the entire situation that much more dismal.  
At five thirty, eight thirty Montreal time, Dustin orders Chinese food and eats it on the floor as the sun sets on the California horizon, shedding golden orange rays across the honey colored floorboards, for its January and the sun sets early this time of year. It's not all bad. Some of his new teammates got a hold of his number and texted him to make him feel welcome and warm as he sits alone on his floor eating chicken dumplings, trying not to think about the fact that he got traded again and failing miserably each time, practically in the dark, for little does he know he won't find the light switch until late next week. But it's okay. It's totally alright. In fact, all of his teammates send a quick hello of some sort except the current starter, John Gibson, of whom Dustin has heard little about. There was the occasional chatter around the rink about the amazing goalie for Anaheim, but nothing past the whole "Rookie of the Month for December" thing and his irritatingly impressive amount of shutouts. Carey didn't talk about other goalies much.  
Earlier that afternoon, Dustin gathered enough motivation to slip out of his apartment and drag himself down the street to Ikea to snag a few sleeping necessities such as a pillow and a blanket. He's never been the best buyer in the world, always finding something fascinating and new that he just absolutely has to get, such as an ice cube mold shaped like a foot, and purchasing it before his mind can catch up with his body. Linea hated it. Remembering his wife and feeling a little guilty, Dustin drew his phone from his jeans' pocket before remembering that she was probably in the middle of a shift and wouldn't want to be bothered. He opted not to dial and soon forgot about her when he noticed a lamp that had owls on it and how cool is that. There was no shame in getting it, in addition to a dainty quilt-y looking rug that he thought Linea might think pretty, when she arrives, until he finally stepped up to the cash register and the cashier eyed the rug dubiously. He only smiled sheepishly and stared at his shoes.  
By the time the sun has plunged beneath the edge of the city, Dustin is ready to call it a day, setting up his makeshift bed in almost complete darkness, using his teeth to tear the plastic covering on the comforter like his mom told him many times not to do. He remembers that he forgot to call Linea, but wonders if she's still awake at 11. He decides to call in the morning before she goes to work, pondering whether or not Carey is still awake. Without hesitation, he rolls over on the wood floor to grab his phone, dialing before really processing what he's doing. It rings and goes to voicemail. Figures. The wind blows gently against the apartment building, a clean white moon in the sky tonight, not a star to be seen against the blackness, not a voice to be heard amongst the stillness, and it's as though it's just Dustin and La Lune alone in Anaheim.

 

 

Extra:

Dustin's lovely lamp-

 

followed by Dustin's equally lovely rug for Linea-

And lastly, Dustin's view of the city-

(via: http://seksiornitorenk.tumblr.com/post/122430571010)


	2. Morning Skate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is pretty much just another background chapter. Things are going to start picking up soon I promise. Enjoy!

After a considerable amount of research, more than he would ever admit to, John concludes that Tokarski would act as a sufficient backup, that is, until Andersen returns; but, his stats show that he would clearly perform better in a minor league setting, in John's expert opinion. He skimmed through a few articles, because they didn't write much about the kid back in Montreal. He didn't get enough ice time for reporters to even really comment on, and John ignored most of the stuff about Tokarski's phenomenal debut year backing up Price, because who wants to read that? He clicks mostly on the articles with the word "inconsistent" throughout, feeling very reassured with himself after each. He also watched several interviews, just to make sure the guy isn't a complete airhead, but as soon as he found himself losing his train of thought, eyes wandering to simply watch as Dustin's mouth form each word, the lull of his smooth voice in his ears, he shut his computer, sick of researching, sick of this new goalie, and sick of the thought that practice is only a short while away and he'll actually have to meet the guy.

***

Dustin wasn't going to admit to anybody that he took an Uber to the rink for the morning skate. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't thought to get a car. I mean who remembers that kind of stuff? The moving truck didn't show up that morning either and Dustin finds it increasingly difficult to remain positive amidst so many negative results. He didn't even know that he was going to be traded, didn't think it would have happened. His career with Montreal was just beginning, how could they give up on him so soon? Sure he hadn't played so hot in his last few games, but he had gotten so used to the AHL pace that it was a bit like going headfirst into ice water, sudden and numbing all at once. If he just had a little more time... If they had given him one more chance... Then maybe he wouldn't be standing in front of the Anaheim Ducks' practice rink, a blank, dull expression on his face, running an absent hand through his hair, wondering whether or not he should go inside or turn on his heel and sprint in the other direction. His fingers move to the pockets of his pants, anxiously tugging at the seams there, when a massive hand claps down on his shoulder in swift motion and Dustin swears he might have pissed himself a little.   
"You lost there, bud?" Dustin turns to stand face to face with none other than Corey Perry. He's never played against the guy, but Carey always said he was a downright flea, more annoying than Gallagher and that's a difficult feat to tackle. And once he's started, Dustin can't help but wonder how Gally's doing, how his hand is, if Patches taped his stick before their morning skate, and if Carey's feeling any better; he'll have to text him after his own skate. Corey is staring at Dustin expectantly for an answer or a nod or something.   
"Uh, yeah," Dustin replies quickly. He can feel his ears getting hot underneath the skin there and prays they're not turning cherry colored.   
"Follow me," is all Corey says, sparing a skeptical, mildly disapproving glance before striding forward past him through the doors. Dustin stares at the sidewalk, then the doors before following in suit. The chilled air of lobby rushes to caress against his cheeks and the familiar feeling of normalcy pricks his senses. His eyes flick everywhere, trying to take everything in.   
Dustin walks quickly behind Corey as they make their way through a long hallway with various guys milling about, some taping sticks, others talking to trainers, atmosphere light and airy, all seemingly preoccupied. Dustin tries to keep his head up but finds it hard when he can't seem to find any familiar faces. He kicks himself on the inside for not knowing anybody; he had planned to rise a bit earlier than usual to skim the roster in order to be prepared to attach names to faces, but as he looks on, he feels the impact of not studying for the test. Fuck. His eyes snag on the colors black, gold, and orange and he apologizes silently to his pants as his fingers grip the pockets more tightly. No red, blue, and white, just harsh, brash tones, so unfamiliar. Corey swerves right, stepping through the doorway into the locker room. Dustin lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The massive logo sits center stage on floor and he gazes at it for a few long moments.   
"Tokarski?" A strong, poised voice calls from across the room. And Dustin can recognize this face because who doesn't know who Ryan Getzlaf is? Dustin can't help but grin and drift over in his direction, slipping out a small, sturdy, "Hey."   
"How was your flight, man? Did you settle in alright?" Ryan is smiling big, standing tall with intimidatingly broad shoulders and thick arms. Dustin doesn't stare.   
He opts not to discuss his current lack of an actual living space so as not to come off as a complainer, so he just grins and shrugs, giving a generic answer about how he's used to long flights and it's great to be here in Anaheim.   
Ryan speaks as any true captain would, "Well, we're all really excited to have you," giving a curt nod and continuing to relace his skates.   
Dustin is extremely pleased with his stall. All his gear is in order, hung up and waiting for him when he makes his way over, a fresh black practice jersey on a side hook, and a newly inked name plate on the top. TOKARSKI. It feels something close to home, something close to belonging again. Newly ordered pads and gloves, a freshly painted mask, adorn the cubbies and side stalls. He runs his fingers along the fresh leather, along gold, orange, black, and white pads, grinning to himself, just happy to be getting on the ice finally after a few really physically and emotionally exhausting days. Everything in Anaheim points towards a new start.   
His stall mates are the other two goalies, the injured Andersen and the starter, Gibson, both currently empty. Dustin knows he should have at least researched them because he'll probably be spending an understandable amount of time with them, but he simply knows next to nothing about either of them.   
New teammates make their rounds, introducing themselves, talking about Montreal a bit, asking if Dustin would like to go see a movie sometime, everybody considerably friendly. Ten minutes into getting dressed, a person who Dustin assumes to be the other goaltender, enters the room, nodding knowingly to several of the guys, baseball hat low, shading his eyes, striding forward confidently and pointedly to his stall. He glances over at Dustin as he passes who looks up from tying his skates with a spoked interest, smiling softly up at the other who just looks down at him distastefully with dark, sharp eyes and a set jaw. He's medium height, taller than Dustin, he can tell already, with locks of gentle curls peeking out from beneath his hat. His face is handsome and tanned, Dustin can see that much, and there's a great confidence and determination in his air. His mouth is pressed into a firm line, his stare piercing.   
"Hi," Dustin beams lightly. John doesn't reply, just moves to sit down in his own stall on the right, arranging several water bottles and half-drunken gatorades around, preoccupied. John drops down in his seat, messing with his phone for a good three minutes. Dustin just continues with his skates eventually attempting a conversation again.   
"I'm Dustin," he states. John looks up from his phone, watching straight ahead before looking over at Dustin as though he has nothing to offer. John says nothing.   
"Tokarski," Dustin finishes, as though he needs to distinguish himself between any other Dustins in the league. John blinks and looks away, proceeding to get dressed for the skate.   
John doesn't look at Dustin, eyes trained on his laces or his pads or his helmet. And Dustin is fine with it, understands that John might want to keep his focus and not to talk to anybody, so he sits silently, half-listening to the other guys' convos until everybody begins to file onto the ice.

***

Tokarski isn't that great. Not at all. He's completely mediocre. At least that's what John tells himself, sneaking glimpses during drills, the other goalie's butterfly slides so seamless, movements fluid and smooth, in control and on point. He has fun while he plays, laughing with the guys as though he's been playing here for years instead of just one day. But John doesn't care. He doesn't care at all. Dustin probably won't be here for long, probably won't even play in any games to be quite honest. So whatever. He lets Dustin have his fun, but doesn't admit to anybody, not even himself, that he was watching. He was just looking at the clock on the wall that is so inconveniently placed above Tokarski's net, nothing more. John just needs to focus on his own performance, who cares who's sitting on the bench.   
After the morning skate, Getzlaf announces a mandatory team lunch at a little sandwich place down the street. A few scattered sighs and groans permeate the silence but most everyone is fine with it. John doesn't mind much, as long as it's short; he has nowhere important to be. He redresses quickly, ignoring the body to his left undressing slowly, dawdling. I mean he looks once or twice, just to make sure he hasn't wandered off and lost himself. Corey said the guy got lost before even stepping inside the rink, but only for that reason does John deign to shift his gaze to the left. Not because his eyes lingered on Dustin's sweat damp hair, a few strands clinging to his forehead and his fingers swooping across to rescue them or his spit-slick bottom lip caught between his white canines. Not at all because of those things.

***

The sandwich shop is a good ten minute walk in the nice California weather. It's mid-60's this time of year and John has always loved this type of mild weather that follows December. He walks side by side with Fowler who's busy showing pictures of God knows what on his phone to Perry on his right with the rest of the team pacing ahead. A line of Bieksa, Kesler, and Tokarski files in a few heads in front and John can make out the definitions of Dustin's shoulder muscles through his shirt...not that he's really looking...he just noticed it briefly is all.   
John looks at the sidewalk now, annoyed with this entire situation. What if John doesn't want to play with Dustin, huh? What if Dustin messes up the team chemistry? So much could go wrong with this type of trade. Honestly, they don't even need him. John ponders these thoughts rather sourly as they cross the street and enter the shop.

***

John stares at his folded hands. Of course the guys had to wander off and leave John alone to save the table...with Tokarski. Getzlaf called it "goalie bonding," as if John wants or needs that. Dustin is fidgeting with his phone, clicking the lock button on and off, nervously eying the screen whilst absentmindedly biting on one of his nails.   
"Just fucking stop," John states flatly and Dustin drops his phone down the table, eyes flicking elsewhere, fingers tapping on the table. Time seems like it's trickling by. A message notification pops up on Dustin's phone and John glances over to read the name quickly.   
"Price?" John questions, locking eyes with Dustin.   
The other goalie's cheeks flush, ears turning pink, stuttering through his speech, "Uh, no. I just was...his injury. I, um, thought I should, um, check in. On him."  
Dustin averts his eyes to his phone and John studies him. His hazel brown eyes flicker back and forth across the screen, a concentrated expression permeating his features. He's built solidly, with broad shoulders, but isn't very tall, a good four inches shorter than John. Brown hair, still a bit damp at the ends from his shower, is cut shortish, brushed off to the side all the slightest. Everything about him says gentle and genuine from his voice to his mannerism. And then Dustin's biting his lip again, looking a bit worried.   
For a brief moment, an idea most unwanted slips into John's subconscious. It is the question of what Dustin would do if John were to lean across the table and crush their mouths together, biting on that plump lip. He wonders if Dustin would moan into the kiss, drawing him closer, needing so much more. But of course John would tease him, giving him only a quick taste and a nip, leaving him desperate.  
John grips the table, eyes moving quickly to stare at the wall behind Dustin's head. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. There's a little flowery pattern on the wall, pink and blue buds with delicate green stems. He demands to know where the thought came from and why it entered into his head. He does everything he can not to look at Dustin, fishing his phone out of his pocket and texting his girlfriend, Alexa.   
Dustin sighs, soft eyes panning across the screen.   
John glares. What's so exasperating in his life that he's got to drag John into it? Dustin smiles a little bit to himself and John wonders if this is really about Price's injury or something else hidden beneath the surface. He takes in Dustin's expression carefully, picking up at the brightness in his cheeks and the excitement in his eyes, unconvinced. The other goalie doesn't look up, invested in whatever it is on the screen. Not that John cares anyway.

***

Throughout the entire team meal, the guys include Dustin in conversations, laughing and thumping him on the back genially, calling him "Ticker" and making bad chirps that ignite a good natured grin tugging at the other goalie's mouth. John sits in his silent abhorrence. He doesn't give a damn. He just wants to go home and see his girlfriend, he hasn't seen her all week and Dustin's just ruining the team's vibe. Someone makes the awful suggestion to schedule a team suit shopping day before they leave for the east coast on Wednesday to play seven games on the road, so "Ticker" can get some "new California threads," and everybody unanimously agrees that that would be most enjoyable. John almost rolls his eyes out of his skull. All the while, Dustin sits across from him, messily eating a club sub with eighty thousand different vegetables and meats all falling out the side and onto the plate in an avalanche of stupid. Did no one teach this guy how to eat like a human being? At one point, he uses his fingers to pick up a banana pepper and pop it into his mouth. Nobody else seems to pick up on this barbaric behavior, eating their own paninis and burgers and whatnot as though Dustin isn't disgracing the entire Ducks' organization with his haphazard consumption habits. Everybody is so oblivious. Un-fucking-real.   
As they get ready to leave, cleaning off the tables and leaving tips, John takes his earliest opportunity to bolt, ignoring Dustin's enthusiastic, "see you tomorrow," and letting the door shutting behind him announce his departure.


	3. Phone Calls and Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dustin is having a hard time adjusting to life without Carey... And John is having a hard time adjusting to life with Dustin....

Anaheim isn't as bad as Dustin thought it would be. He likes the city and his teammates and the food—all the important stuff. The only thing missing is Carey. Dustin thinks about him often, his warm voice, his gentle touch, his mere presence. He knows he shouldn't, he knows Carey doesn't miss him half as much as he misses him. And sometimes it's just so hard. The thought makes Dustin want to walk out the door and into the nearest bar and drown himself in as many shots his body can take until his brain quiets down long enough to stumble home and shove his face in a pillow and let sleep consume his restless heart. He was a fool to think that his feelings could every be reciprocated by Carey, of all people; Dustin is just a back up, what would Carey want from him aside from the occasional easy lay?  
Dustin called a few nights ago, late, gazing out at the dark city from his makeshift bed on the floor, listening intently to four long rings until the line connected and Carey mumbled a murky, "Hullo?"  
Dustin almost crushed the phone in his hands he was so excited to hear the other man's voice. "Hi," Dustin sighed.  
"Hey, Ticker. What time is it?" Carey replied, yawning into the end of his sentence. Dustin removes the phone from his ear and glances at the time. 9:30. 12:30 Montreal time. Whoops.  
"Miss you, Carey," Dustin speaks softly, eyes dancing across the flickering city lights. He knows he shouldn't say anything like that because he'll just get his own hopes up just to tear them all down with Carey's blasé responses.  
"Miss you too, bud, how's Cali?" Carey says. There's rustling on the other end of the line and Dustin can hear Carey whisper a few words to someone else in the room, most likely his wife, Angela.  
"Alright. It's warm here," Dustin traces a finger across the cool hardwood floor. He wants to say so much more, wants to tell him about how the moving van hasn't come yet and how particular Fowler is about how sharp his skates are and the little café down the street that makes the best coffee he's ever had. The city is quiet below.  
"Yea? How's the other goalie...the rookie? Heard he's pretty down to earth," Carey's voice is smooth and even, so relaxed and mellow. Dustin melts.  
"He's um...you know..." Dustin shrugs.  
He's not quite sure how to describe his relationship with John. The guy glares at him all the time, ignores his questions, and rolls his eyes, not to mention his sarcastic responses when he does deign to reply. Dustin is pretty sure John looks for every possible opportunity to avoid him. He probably would move his stall to the other side of the locker room if he could.  
"So, he's a dick?" Carey guesses.  
Dustin laughs a bit, "He doesn't like me much, no."  
"Already? Wow, it took me at least a week to start hating you," Carey teases.  
Dustin rolls his eyes, "Shut up."  
The conversation drawls on like a boat bobbing on the kept surface of a river, not hitting any rough waves, so many words unsaid, nothing tossing the skiff, until Angela calls Carey back to bed. And Dustin is so reluctant to say goodbye, wants to hold on just a little longer. It takes him a while to put his phone down, after the line goes silent, and creep a little deeper beneath the covers, but when he does, he shuts his eyes, rolls onto the side facing away from the city, and imagines how it used to feel when Carey used to hold him close through the night.

***

John doesn't recognize the setting. It's some equipment closet in some rink in some city that John can't remember the name of. Rolls of tape line the walls and jerseys hang on scattered hooks. He can feel his fingers against the cool of the doorknob, locking it, and time seems to slow for a moment before everything's happening all at once. He presses his body against another's, his hands reaching behind to grab his ass through his shorts. The person against him moans into his shoulder filthily, sending all the blood in his body south, rutting against John's thigh desperately. Hands move fast, teeth biting, lips locking, chests rising and falling in unison, moans and sighs filling the little closet. John's thoughts are muddled, he can't tell right from left, and fuck this is hot. He shoves the other body up against the door, feeling so in control, so strong, and the person beneath him complies so easily, as if he wants this, needs this, leaning into John's touch shamelessly. John draws back from the kiss, lungs begging for air, sparing an inch of space only to glance up and see the face of Dustin Tokarski staring back at him, lips kiss swollen, pupils blown, cheeks a blustery red, almost as surprised to see John as John is surprised to see him.  
And that's when John wakes up.  
His fingers grip the sheets, heart rate pounding through his veins. Perturbed eyes shoot about the dark room as if half expecting the other goalie to materialize from behind a door or something. But he doesn't. It's just John and Alexa in the bed, nobody else. John doesn't want to think about what his mind just painted a picture of and with whom it involved. It doesn't mean anything anyway...it's only a dream. Sighing coarsely, he rolls over onto his side looping a languid arm around Alexa's waist to draw her nearer, holding her close through the night.

***

The arena vibrates with the thrum of 20,000 voices all mixed into one roaring beast. Dustin can feel it in his veins, can feel it under his skin like the white water rapids of a river. The rush of cool air caresses his cheeks as the play thunders past him. He watches the flash of green and gold and black and orange and white, feeling so alive, feeling a part of the city, as though it swallowed him whole. Dallas puts in work in the first period with eighteen shots on net and Dustin watches in utter fascination as John smothers and turns every puck aside; like Carey used to. And suddenly Dustin is no longer watching the play, but staring at the rafters and wondering if Carey had never gotten injured he would still be in Montreal instead. His focus is so distant that he doesn't process why everybody is getting off the ice for the end of the period. His eyes rest on Perry blankly, who nods towards the tunnel.  
Dustin can't clear his head of the thought, he realizes. As he watches the logo on the middle of the locker room floor, he can't help but miss the big red, white, and blue "C," and as Rakell scores the game winner with two minutes left, he can't help but wonder if Chuckie would have scored that goal given the opportunity, and as he steps on the ice to salute the crowd he only hears the blurred cheers of French and English and sees the red jerseys, and the worst is when he skates over to congratulate Gibson on the shutout and looks into his eyes and wants so badly to see Carey's deep brown ones staring back, only to see John's dark, penetrating glare instead. And despite the big win, Dustin can't be excited for his first home game in Anaheim because the whole time he's thinking about another city that is no longer his.  
He pulls off gear slowly, like a machine, trying so desperately to clear his head. He can feel John's eyes on him every now and then, searing into his skin, but he couldn't care less. The throbbing sore of the empty hole Carey left in his heart hurts more than John's abhorrence. And when Despres invites him out to celebrate the win with drinks ("the whole team is going, except for the old guys, c'mon it will be fun! The city looks a lot better three drinks in, trust me"), Dustin just shakes his head, giving some bullshit excuse so he can go back to his dinky little apartment and get drunk by himself and stare at his phone until he gathers up the courage to shut it off instead of calling.  
As he stands to leave, John stands too, as if to say something important. Dustin just watches the taller man with tired eyes. And for a moment, John's glare seems to dissipate in the slightest as he says, smiling a little out of the side of his mouth, "See you tomorrow," hesitating after the words have left his mouth as though he wishes he could grab them out of the air and shove them back in his mouth. But, the gesture is almost genuine and nice and Dustin wants to say thank you because for a millisecond, he forgets Carey even exists, for he is so taken aback by the sudden normality that John Gibson presented him to marvel at. His smile lingers on his face for a few moments and Dustin can't pull his eyes from the expression, wonder struck. It doesn't last long, for John appears to realize, by Dustin's silence, that he has torn open his irritable facade, and he has to recover it, grabbing a water bottle off the top shelf and stalking past Dustin, shoulders knocking as he moves by, chucking the water in the trash in the corner with unnecessary force as if truly annoyed. Dustin stands alone in the locker room, stock still, numb.  
"Yeah," he replies as if in a sort of trance, John long gone, "See you tomorrow," legs like lead as he makes his way to the door, picking up John's water bottle that missed the trash can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra:

JG

DT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it?


	4. East Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update!

Dull light floods in through the windows as a crumpled body lies in a heap under soft, white sheets. Dustin curls his toes and thrashes a leg to escape from under the hot covers, grumbling a bit when his skin kisses the cool hardwood of the floor for a moment. Wednesday morning is lazy and calm. He tucks his face into the pillow, tossing an arm languidly across his body, yawning into the material. The sounds of the city rumble distantly below, smooth and gentle. The clock on Dustin’s phone reads 11:33, later than he’d like, but, as with most things lately, he couldn’t give a fuck. The night before, he had told himself he’d wake up early and go for a run and then find a grocery store to buy ingredients for a big, hearty breakfast; right now, the only nourishment he has in the whole apartment is a box of Triscuits. Yet, his first response to a 7 AM alarm was to shut it off as soon as humanly possible and shove his face back into the covers.

Besides, the suit fitting isn’t until 1 o’clock anyway.

 

***

 

John fidgets with his watch, eyes trained on the little seconds hand making it’s way around the four. Fowler is comparing the materials of two bowties with Pirri and the conversation is getting _exhausting._ The whole team is in attendance, only waiting for the one guy they’re doing this whole thing for—Dustin.

“That’s not silk, silk has a richer texture,” Fowler rubs the tie between his thumb and forefinger.

John fixates his eyes on the door.

“I didn’t say it was, I said i-,” Pirri picks up another droopy-looking bowtie off an observation table. It looks sad and disappointed.

“Yes you did, you said ‘Hey Cam, look at this silky-looking,’” Fowler is swinging the freaking thing all over the place to emphasize his argument.

“Ah! Silky- _looking_ , not silk, fucker. Don’t misquote me,” Pirri grins, fingers coming up to sneakily pinch the bowtie out of the other player’s grasp.

Dustin appears through the doorway, finally, and the guys greet him with loud, “Hey!”s and “Ticker!”s. John bites his tongue. The guy is practically seven minutes late. Ridiculous. Dustin apologizes profusely to everybody about how he “got lost.” How could anyone get lost in Anaheim? Unbelievable.

The boys spread out in different sections of the store for the most part, the majority sifting through the tie section, as they have no need for a new suit, several of the younger guys lingering with Dustin to aid him in a decision. John dabbles here and there, running his fingers along various materials, eyes glancing about the store, practically empty on a Wednesday afternoon. The place is quiet except for the distant murmur of his teammates’ voices and laughter. The calmness runs through John’s body, a wonderful change to the normal fast-paced, out-of-control whirlwind of the everyday life of an NHL goalie. Do your stretches, don’t eat that cake, lift, skate, cool down, ice bathe, don’t eat that ice cream, go to bed early, wake up early, stay active, and so on and so forth. But it’s good, it’s fun, it’s alright.

John switches rooms to the shirt department, voices growing nearer as he peeks around a rack of starched button-downs. Getzlaf is buttoning up Dustin’s suit jacket, Kesler standing off to the side approvingly. And there’s a moment of stillness when John lets his eyes rest on Dustin, as though he had never seen him before, his frame perfectly highlighted by the pants and jacket, grinning softly, fiddling with the cuffs at his left wrist. John’s mind blanks. And fuck, he can’t wonder how hot taking _off_ that jacket would be, close up, feeling Dustin beneath him, pulling him close, biting bruises against his throat. No. Wait. Stop. That’s not what he should be thinking about this is-this is not okay.

“Lookin’ good, eh Gibby?” Getzlaf nods.

John doesn’t know where his breath went. His legs feel numb.

“Yeah. Sharp,” John replies flatly. Dustin smiles, so warm, so genuine, eyes bright before shifting to the ground. John has to pull his gaze away, turning and walking out of the room before he can do something stupid.

 

***

 

The team checks into the Pittsburgh hotel late that night, around 9:30. John surmised he’d be stuck with Dustin as a roommate since Andersen stayed back in Anaheim to nurse his injury. John isn’t a bad guy. He’s not being an asshole because he’s actually an asshole…it’s because you can’t be _too_ friendly with a new goalie partner. Then they act like they own the place, like they can walk all over you, like they can take your starting position from right under your feet. So, you see, you _have_ to be kind of a dick to them so they don’t get cozy. At least that’s what John tells himself as he puts the keycard in the door, Dustin sort of lagging behind looking at all the dumb pictures on the wall like an idiot. John rolls his eyes and bolts the door so Dustin won’t be locked out when he finally decides to grow up and settle in for the night, stalking over to the bed on the left and tossing his duffle down. The room is pretty nice, a big flatscreen mounted on the wall, two ridiculously large queen-sized beds, and a full mini bar. John skims the drink selection briefly from afar, not making a move to go to it though. He has to be disciplined. Even though it would be really fucking nice to get shit-faced right now, especially after a rough couple of days, it just wouldn’t make sense with a morning skate in the morning and a game that night and all those _thoughts_ he’s been having as of late. It’s just no good to fuel them by giving his brain some juice to send more ridiculous fantasies to the forefront and possibly out of his mouth is all. John likes to drink, he likes to party, but this just isn’t the right time or place to try anything. So, reluctantly, he preps for bed, flipping off the lights and sliding under the covers before he can change his mind, asleep by the time Dustin comes back to the room.

 

***

 

John is in net against Pittsburgh the next night. After all, Dustin is just a back up, not expected to actually start any of the games. The Ducks play a real team game, swarming the Pens, shutting them out 3-0. And, as is customary after a big win, the boys hit the bars to celebrate. Out of gear and into street clothes, Anaheim streams into a lively yet dark club just outside the city, girls on the dancefloor, drinks on the house. The music is too loud and the air, too hot. John leans against a stool, eyes narrowing skeptically at his teammates and their choice of women. Most of the guys with a girl at their hip are single, while some have girlfriends and are looking for a dance and nothing else. John just sips at his glass of water bitterly. He used to be one of the guys on the dancefloor, drunk and loud and having too much fun, but lately he hasn’t been up to it. The beat of the music pounds in his ears. God, he’s got a headache. Tacky strobe-like lights flash, sporadically lighting up the darkness. For a moment, he almost thinks to order a drink just to make things a little less shitty, but his eyes catch Dustin sitting a little ways down at the bar, watching sports highlights on a big flatscreen.

John goes over to him, because he was standing alone and he needs to make sure Dustin doesn’t get lost. He’s being a good teammate, nothing else. Dustin nods a bit when John takes the neighboring stool. He doesn’t exactly give a bright smile anymore when John materializes near him, he’s noticed. Tension has built up between the two goaltenders, no doubt due to John’s less than warm welcome. Discomfort and awkwardness remains and Dustin can only be civil towards John, tired of making an effort more than that.

“Not drinking tonight?” Dustin says dryly, attention on the TV instead of the person next to him fiddling with a glass. His tone seems a bit surprised, as though Dustin takes John as a stupid kid who parties at every opportunity. He’s not completely wrong.

“Not tonight. Big game tomorrow,” John replies, eyes tracing across Dustin’s face through the darkness, features slightly illuminated by the dull lights at the bar. His ears are a little pinked at the tips.

Silence settles.

Dustin doesn’t seem affected by it.

But suddenly, John is left alone then with his own thoughts, leaning towards an aimless red zone. Dustin brings his glass to his plump lips for a moment, drawing a short sip, running his tongue along his bottom lip after, making it shiny and wet.

“You’re not drinking tonight either?” John blurts out with a little less control than he’d like.

“Nope. Big game tomorrow,” Dustin keeps his attention on the sports highlights.

And that strikes a nerve with John. He was _trying_ to keep the convo going, unlike Dustin. What’s this guy’s problem? He’s a _terrible_ conversationalist to say the least; it’s like he’s not even putting in an effort.

“Big game from the bench, I bet,” John hisses under his breath, aiming for subtle, hitting rude and cutting instead.

And with that, Dustin looks over. His face looks so tired, barely irritated, just plain unamused, as if he expected this.

“Not on the dancefloor tonight?” Dustin states, a sort of, ‘go back to the element of asshole you’re comfortable in.’

“I could ask you the same,” John quips.

“I’m married,” Dustin replies smoothly, glancing over his shoulder at one of the younger guys grinding on a blonde, music loud, dancefloor crowded.

“I have a girlfriend,” John matches.

And at that response, Dustin almost _grins_ , as if that’s the most humorous thing he’s heard since he came to Anaheim. John can practically read the other man’s thoughts. With looks like his, John can have anyone, anytime, easily, and why should a girlfriend get in the way of that? It probably hasn’t in the past, especially with the many opportunities he has at quick sex after a sweet win. Scoring on the road is easier than a relationship and girlfriends and wives never end up finding out.

“Okay,” Dustin states, sipping at his water and turning back to the TV.

Fuck that’s aggravating. John just grips his own glass tighter. Ignoring Dustin’s lip caught in his teeth, murky eyes observing the stupid fucking baseball highlights or whatever the hell they are, struggling to keep his cool.

For once, he wishes he had stayed in instead.

 

***

 

The Ducks beat the Pens again the next night, in a shootout, and immediately get on the plane headed to Washington after the cool down stretching and showers, thankfully. John doesn’t know if he could handle another attempt at sober partying, especially if it turns out like last night. On the plane, John sits next to Cam because Cam brought his laptop so they can watch the first hour of that new movie, _Creed_ , because they kept saying they were gonna go see it in theatres but they never actually did. That’s what always happens with Cam and John—they make plans to go do something but never actually do it.

John takes the aisle seat and Cam, the window, because he likes to look at the stars and tell John all about them and then not let him see them, setting up the laptop between their tray tables so it’s easily accessible in the middle.

Cam is going on about Crosby and how he blocked his pass on the 2-on-1 in the second period, and John is only half listening. He’s half looking down the aisle, looking at where everybody else is sitting. You know, just to know who’s sitting with who, is all. All the young guys normally clump together in the middle and back with the old guys, AKA the dads who want to sleep, at the front. Cam and John are just two of a handful of players, including Sami and Ritchie, the three young Swedes, Manson and Despres, and Pirri and Tropp, who tend to gravitate toward the rear on flights like this. John is a little annoyed when he finds Dustin sitting up front with Stoner and Kesler and Bieksa, as if he was a veteran, hair still damp from his shower (that he really didn’t have to take, he didn’t even play anyway), sticking out in every direction imaginable. He doesn’t even know how to comb his hair properly.

Cam hands John one of the earbuds and they start the movie, but John finds that he can’t really focus on what’s going on on the screen. His eyes watch the movements of the actors blankly and he’s not fully listening to the dialogue, ears tuning in to the low current of Tokarski’s voice, eight rows up.

In the interviews John watched, he was always very annoyed with how humble and well spoken Dustin was, how he gave credit for big wins to his teammates, even when Dustin contributed to a huge part of the team’s success. John hated it. It seems like he’s always surrounded by those nice jerks who never take good credit and make _John_ feel like the asshole. Dustin’s voice was always so gentle when he spoke, warm and soft, like he meant every word coming out of his mouth, so different from a lot of the people John hangs out with.

Cam laughs at something and John sort of half-grins to pretend like he knows what’s going on.

The plane ride gets worse as time passes, John ignoring the screen altogether, just staring at the back of Dustin’s head, secretly hoping he’d turn around, afraid if he did. Dustin’s not _that_ much older than John, so why’s he sitting up there? Does he not _like_ John? Does he think he’s too good for him? What a dick. Why won’t he just turn around? Why isn’t he sitting next to John? Goalies always stick together, not that John sat next to Andersen ever, but Dustin is different, John sees him differently than he sees Andersen. And hell, if Dustin were sitting next to him right now, he wouldn’t give a damn. He’d ignore him the whole flight, just to show him that John doesn’t _need_ him to sit there, that he’s perfectly fucking fine with Dustin sitting up front, and that he’d much rather be sitting with Cam instead. Cam brings movies. What does Dustin bring? Nothing.

The other goalie laughs at something Kesler says and John’s heartbeat races. Fuck.

But maybe, if Dustin were sitting next to him, he’d palm his dick through his dress pants, stroking him through the material to get him hot and hard, leaning in close to bite his ear. And nobody would see them because the cabin is so dark, but he’d stick his finger’s in Dustin’s mouth to keep him quiet, to keep him from letting out a moan, and Dustin would look at him with those eyes, so full of want, bucking his hips up to get more friction. John would make him wait for a while before dipping his hand into Dustin’s boxers and oh, how he would gasp—wait no, he wouldn’t make a sound because he wouldn’t want to get caught, but he’d grab onto John’s knee out of reflex and—

The plane touches down in Washington, a less than smooth landing. Cam has the laptop balanced on his thighs, shutting it and drawing the earbud out of his ear. John does the same.

“We can watch the rest on the plane ride to, uh, Carolina,” Cam says, finishing off his sentence with a yawn, resting his head against the window. Yellow lamplights glow against the pitch Washington sky.

 

***

 

It’s cold on the east cost, 30 degrees at least, and as soon as they find their room, John cranks the heat up way more than is necessary. Dustin doesn’t really protest, just glances up from his phone, wordlessly, before throwing it on the bed. John eyes the mini bar next to the fridge curiously. Of course Dustin follows his gaze, smirking a bit out of the corner of his mouth as he tosses John a bottle.

“I’m not drinking. Big game tomorrow,” John repeats his words from the previous night.

Dustin doesn’t seem to care really, grabbing a little bottle for himself and cracking the top off.

“Yeah. Game tomorrow,” the other goalie raises a suggestive eyebrow before taking a swig, a playful grin tugging at his lips. For a moment, John wants to unscrew his own bottle and drink until he can’t make decisions, then press Dustin up against the wall and feel his ass through his dress pants, like he did in the dream. The heater kicks on and John toes off his shoes, setting the little bottle down on the glass night table with a loud clatter.

The lights go off minutes later, but Dustin is still shuffling around the room. John pretends not to care as he peers through the dark at the other figure struggling to get his shirt off, standing only in his boxers. He trips over his own shoes, shirt partially off, the collar stuck at his ears, tripping all over the place.

He slams his elbow against the corner of the wall. “Ow, fuck,” Dustin whispers, finally free from his undershirt, which he tosses carelessly in the direction of his duffle. It misses, as it would, landing on the floor with a gentle umf.

Silence consumes the room. John doesn’t care, rolling over to face the window instead of the other person in the room. His eyes grow heavy, heart rate slowing, and yet, his body refuses to rest. The city is alive beneath them, a Saturday early morning, and the excitement of the cars rushing about and the lighted buildings messes with his internal sleep clock. He just played a game. He should be tired. But he can’t sleep. His mind runs in circles. It’s been forty-five minutes at least since he turned off the lights and he wishes he could shut his eyes tight and pass out.

From the other side of the room, he hears Dustin shifting under his covers, moving around. It’s quiet at first, a slight movement of the comforter and whatnot, but after a minute, John realizes what’s going on. He wonders momentarily if he’s dreaming, daring not to roll over to watch, desperately wanting to despite his better judgment.

Dustin is jerking off, breathing growing heavy and making these _filthy_ noises that he’s clearly trying to hold in, possibly biting his lip to keep it down. John wonders what the other man would do if he slipped under his covers and stroked his dick, whispering dirty promises in his ear until he came. John can feel himself getting hard through his boxers, but he dares not to touch himself, not to make a noise, staring straightforward, wide-eyed into the darkness of the hotel room. Dustin is shifting in the sheets now. He whimpers, almost panting. John squeezes his eyes shut, picturing Dustin finger-fucking himself as he masturbates, hips rolling, head tossed back against the pillow, back arched. He’s breathing faster now, and it’s not long before John can tell he’s climaxing, gasping, sheets rustling, and breathing out the name, “Carey.”

John lays stock-still. Carrie. Who’s that? His wife? It must be. And John is wide awake now, pulse beating through his chest as he listens to the sound of Dustin’s breathing, cleaning himself off under the sheets. And then John remembers the text in the sandwich shop, the name that lit up Dustin’s phone: Carey Price. Carey was Dustin’s on the side sex. Fuck, that’s hot. Dustin’s asleep within ten minutes, breathing light and slow, leaving John to pad to the bathroom as quiet as he can when he’s about to come in his pants. And it only takes two strokes and John is coming hard, biting back a groan as best as he can. Before he can process what he just did, John washes his hands, flicks off the light, and tiptoes quietly back to his bed, pausing momentarily to stare through the dark at the lump under the covers that is Dustin Tokarski.


End file.
